


take what's yours and make it mine

by claudusdiei



Series: make this moment last forever [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Pining, Post-Time Skip, one-sided atsuhina, one-sided atsukita, the 2020 agenda of making a fool out of miya atsumu, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudusdiei/pseuds/claudusdiei
Summary: atsumu falls in love four times in his life(or: in which atsumu gets his heart broken twice, has the self-awareness of a sober mule and really likes yellow tulips)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: make this moment last forever [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755259
Comments: 56
Kudos: 1120





	take what's yours and make it mine

**Author's Note:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/eaF5A6-ofuE)/[♫](https://youtu.be/r5iG82pddOo)
> 
> [\+ a russian translation by the lovely mooniemoon13](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9576839)
> 
> me: i'm gonna write a fic without projecting onto the characters
> 
> me writing the fic: projects onto the characters

**i.**

Atsumu meets volleyball on a rainy Sunday afternoon. 

He had been running away from an awful game of tag going on between him and his brother - awful because _he_ was it - when he stumbled upon a small, concrete building complex. 

Upon closer inspection, he hears squeaks of sneakers, shouts of “I got it!” and “Mine!”, and above all, the deafening sound of balls being hit into the floor, drowning out the pitter-patter of the rain. He peers through the opening at the side of the building and sees a sea of hardwood floor and a tall, looming white net raised in the center like a lighthouse. He sees striped balls being passed back and forth on the sidelines and boys flying on the court. 

He learns that the building complex is part of Yako Junior High and that the sport the boys were playing was volleyball. He spends afternoons in the gym, peppering with his brother, who had been dragged - _willingly_ \- to play volleyball with him, graciously accepting advice from the nice manager lady whenever she corrected his form. 

Atsumu meets volleyball on a rainy Sunday afternoon and falls in love two days later. 

**ii.**

Atsumu likes to think he’s a good decision-maker. After all, he was awarded Best Server and Best Setter for a reason. He’s good at making crucial decisions under pressure and can often deliver. 

So that’s how he arrives here, on the floor of the cramped bathroom he shares with Osamu, bleaching his hair. He binges no less than four youtube videos, all titled along the lines of “DIY: Bleaching Your Hair for Beginners”, and has spent the past two hours carefully applying some sort of bleach-developer-paste concoction to his hair. 

He thinks about all the steps that led him to this spot and comes up with a list in his mind while rinsing his hair under the sink. 

**Why Atsumu is Bleaching His Hair:**

**1) He bought hair bleach from the convenience store two blocks from his house a week ago after volleyball practice.**

**2) He needs to stand out** (If one more person confused him with Osamu he was going to lose his mind).

**3) All good volleyball players have a distinct quality to them that makes them memorable. As a good volleyball player, he needs to bleach his hair.**

**4) Kita Shinsuke**

During his first volleyball practice at Inarizaki, he meets Kita Shinsuke for the first time. 

When he enters the Inarizaki gym, he introduces himself and announces that he’ll make Inarizaki the best team in Japan. Osamu scowls at him. The rest of the team laughs and applauds him for his confidence. 

Kita Shinsuke, a gray-haired second year, only stands back and looks at Atsumu indifferently. Later, when Atsumu introduces himself as The Miya Atsumu - setter extraordinaire with a monster serve that rivaled those of top aces in the nation - to Kita, he merely nods and walks away. 

While the rest of the world praises Atsumu for his hard work and perseverance, Kita chastises him for overworking himself. While the rest of the world begs for Atsumu’s attention, Kita barely acknowledges him. 

Every time Kita ignored him, Atsumu wanted to smash his head into a wall. And every time Kita looked his way, he still wanted to smash his head into a wall. So that’s why, a week before winter break, after a volleyball practice where Kita completely ignored him, he buys a container of hair bleach. 

Atsumu looks into the mirror and assesses his work. He picks at his nails twice. Osamu bangs on the door again. Osamu had knocked on the door no less than three times that night, yelling “What’re ya doin’ in there, ‘Tsumu?” and even accusing Atsumu of “jerkin’ it to that stash of Volleyball Monthly magazines that yer obsessed with”. Atsumu took all of the comments in stride and eventually appeared from the door, an angel emerging from the dark, before Osamu snorted at him and called him _cornhead_ for the rest of the week. 

The following week, school reopens and practices commence once again. Atsumu trudges through his classes and breezes through practice. He receives stares from girls in his class and laughs from his teammates. 

Kita offers him a small smile and tells him, “I like your hair.” Atsumu wants to break something. 

He messes up two of his serves after that. Osamu laughs knowingly at him from across the net. He sneers back at him. 

At home, he picks at his hair in the mirror, watching the pale strands of his hair stream through his fingers. Small rivulets of bright yellow flowing through angular valleys. He twists a strand in his fingers four times. Lets it go. He puts a carefully practiced smile on his face and stares at himself for a few minutes. He drops the smile. 

That night, he resists the urge to bite his nails. He shoves his hands under his pillow and goes to sleep. _It’s a Monday_ , he tells himself. 

*

Over the course of the next two years, Atsumu befriends Kita. Well, at least as much as one can befriend Kita Shinsuke. He makes conversation with Kita during the start of practice and earns a few small smiles. Sometimes, they even exchange a few words between drills. By the start of his second year, Atsumu learns two things:

**1) Bleached hair requires a lot of maintenance**

**2) He’s in love with Kita Shinsuke**

The day he realizes he’s in love with Kita, Osamu gives him a weird look and says, “It was only a matter of time.”

Atsumu frowns, “How did’ya know?” 

Osamu smiles and taps at his temple, a predator-like gleam in his eye, “Twin-telepathy.”

Atsumu frowns even harder at that, and Osamu laughs in his face. 

* 

They’re sitting in a cramped booth in a cafe a few blocks from Inarizaki. Suna had urged the team to try out the cafe, promising “the best sweets in the nation”. 

Ojiro had thrown up when he tried their taiyaki. 

“All I’m sayin’ is that if they can’t even make taiyaki, then why’re we still here?” Osamu looks towards Suna for an answer, an image of pure indifference, but Atsumu knows better. 

Suna pouts. “At least they have good green tea,” he mutters, twirling a straw around in said green tea. 

“It’s not even hot.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. Ya stuck a plastic straw in there, Suna.” 

Atsumu watches the exchange with relative disinterest, if only to avoid looking directly at Kita from across the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kita cutting the cheesecake he ordered into small squares. The cake that the cafe offered had been surprisingly good compared to the other desserts they made. He looks down at his own empty plate, crumbs of kasutera dancing in a circle around the edges of the plate. 

They remind him of that one painting Kita had shown him once, while he was helping Atsumu study. Atsumu had asked Kita what he liked to do in his free time while Kita was quizzing him on english vocabulary. 

Kita had merely paused and said, “I enjoy painting and drawing sometimes. Mostly, I just like looking at art.” 

Atsumu had asked what his favorite piece was, and Kita had shown him a picture of naked figures holding hands, dancing in a circle. It looked like a five-year-old painted it. Atsumu had said as much, and Kita had offered him an exasperated smile. Kita had said the painting was titled _Dance_ , mouth curving around the english word. Atsumu repeated the word, frowning at the way it fit in his mouth. 

The painting was by one of those fancy french painters that Atsumu had never bothered remembering the names of. Kita had told him that the painting represented carefreeness and disregard for restraints. Atsumu had wanted to laugh in his face about his affinity towards glorified scribbles, but held back and nodded along. It was Kita after all. 

Atsumu thinks of the free-flowing lines on the painting. He thinks of the mechanical way Kita slices his cake with his fork. Kita notices him staring. 

He gives Atsumu a soft smile. “Do you want a piece?” 

*

His brother says he has the self-awareness of a drugged mule. Atsumu would like to think that he at least has the self-awareness of a sober mule. 

Which is why he’s at a flower shop the day of the third year’s graduation, purchasing a bouquet of yellow tulips. He read somewhere that yellow tulips were symbols of one-sided love, unrequited attraction. Atsumu had never been one to give meaning to inanimate objects, but he knew Kita would appreciate it. 

He thumbs at a gossamer-thin petal on his way to the graduation ceremony. Once. Twice. The petals are so delicate. Atsumu could break them easily if he wanted to. One harsh press of his thumb to the skin of the petal could bruise it forever. 

Atsumu’s self-aware enough to know that Kita doesn’t love him back and will probably never love him back the way he loves him. He sees it in the way Kita smiles at him, friendly to a fault. He sees it in the way that Kita’s glances towards his teammates are always just that, glances, never lingering stares. 

So when he asks to speak to Kita alone after the ceremony, hands him the flowers and gives Kita a piece of his heart, he expects the sad smile on his face. 

Later, Atsumu will think to himself that the relationship wouldn’t have worked out. Kita was clean and calm, an undisturbed river coursing through a small meadow. Atsumu was a maelstrom of a human being, leaving bits and pieces of himself strewn around deserted towns, messy rooms, and empty volleyball courts. Atsumu was sure Kita never had a breakdown over odd numbers and was sure Kita wouldn’t want to deal with someone who would. He was sure Kita had never peeled off all the skin around his cuticles during long breaks and off-seasons and was sure Kita wouldn’t want to deal with someone who would.

He flips over on his bed to face the two tulips he kept from the bouquet. They sit in a clear vase, stems intertwined, reminding Atsumu of crossed fingers before games and linked pinkies during childhood adventures. One of the petals was already drooping miserably off the left flower. Atsumu wondered how long they were going to last for. 

*

The last petal falls after four days. Atsumu falls out of love with Kita Shinsuke two days later.

*

**iii.**

Atsumu likes even numbers. When he wakes up, he plays exactly two _country_ Taylor Swift songs (country because that was the _best_ Taylor Swift era) before getting out of bed. He turns the sink on four times before brushing his teeth. He takes exactly one hundred seconds to brush his teeth, swishing around the liquid in his mouth four times before spitting twice. 

He packs four sets of knee pads, six pairs of socks, two sleeping shirts, and two pairs of sleeping pants. He locks the door twice before following Osamu to school. On the bus ride to nationals, he taps the side of his chair fifty times before allowing himself to sleep. 

On the court, he sets a ball twice in the air to warm up. He sets fifty times to his teammates before they’re called to warm up their serves. He takes four steps for a jump float. Six for a spike serve. 

Everything was going smoothly. Now all they had to do was beat Karasuno. 

He meets Hinata Shouyou twice that day. He meets the Hinata on the side of the court and the Hinata on the court. Hinata on the side of the court is childish at best, exchanging insults with Kageyama like he was born to do so. Hinata on the court is of an entirely different caliber. 

Atsumu feels his heartbeat quicken whenever Hinata hits the ball. His presence is electric, causing others around him to feel the same static pulsing in his veins. It’s intoxicating, Atsumu thinks, as he sets the ball to Suna and watches him hit it with practiced ease. 

He tells Hinata (in a completely non-dramatic way) that he would set for him one day. 

Atsumu forgets about Hinata in four days. 

*

Atsumu has been to the beach twice in his life. Once, when he was seven and the other, when he was fifteen. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the sand, bits and pieces clinging to his feet weeks after each trip, and he hadn’t found collecting seashells particularly interesting either. He did, however, like the sun. He liked how the sun would envelop him in its forgiving warmth and how he had to squint a little if he wanted to watch the seagulls dance along the ocean. 

He thinks about this while watching Hinata Shouyou play beach volleyball on Bokuto’s tiny phone screen. Hinata’s definitely improved since their last match at Nationals. He remembers scrawny limbs and a body that could barely contain all the excitement Hinata had. Now, even through the barrier of a phone screen, he can see that Hinata has grown into himself, has gotten a body to keep up with his fiery personality.

“He’s trying out for us, you know?” Bokuto says, snapping Atsumu out of his reverie. 

“Who, Shouyou-kun?” 

Bokuto nods fervently, shifting his position on the couch, “I’m sure he’ll get on too. I mean, just look at him!” 

Atsumu looks back to the phone screen. He sees Hinata jumping higher than he ever did on a court, sees Hinata’s controlled passes and sets, sees his monster serves. He sees the hard work embedded in Hinata’s muscles, the determination burning in his eyes.

Atsumu can only agree with Bokuto. 

*

Hinata is a monster on the court too. He points his left hand towards the sky, flying towards the sun, before slamming the ball down. He glances down at his hands in amazement, before looking over to Atsumu. 

“Atsumu-san, that set was amazing! It went _fwuah_ and then directly into my palm!”

Atsumu smiles at him in response and holds out his hands in front of him. Hinata bounds over, grin on his face, and high-fives him.

He decides then that Hinata is something of a golden star. He’s bright and bubbly, his incandescent energy blinding everyone within a 6-mile radius. He excites Atsumu, awakens something deep down inside him that had been dormant for so long.

He tells Osamu as much over the phone, foolishly expecting a thoughtful response. 

His response: “Ah yes, the inherent homoeroticism of volleyball.”

Atsumu hangs up. 

He stares at the phone in his hand, screen flashing with notifications from Osamu. He sets his phone down on the kitchen counter. Looks around his apartment. 

It’s a small, one-bedroom apartment in the heart of the city, overlooking tall buildings and crowded streets. He’s pretty sure all of the MSBY Black Jackals lived in the complex too, with apartments not so different from his own. 

His oven-less kitchen flaunts unpolished granite countertops and a broken microwave in the corner. Two boxes of onigiri sit perched on one of the countertops, the Onigiri Miya logos flashing under the light as if mocking him. 

(“I know for a fact ya can’t take care of yerself so I’m gonna drop off onigiri for ya every week.”

Atsumu had called it unsolicited junk mail to Osamu’s face.

He grabbed two every morning on his way to practice.)

Atsumu huffed. He _could_ take care of himself. There were fresh groceries resting in the refrigerator right now, and he had made himself (burnt) fried rice last night instead of instant ramen. So he could take care of himself. Osamu’s stupid for suggesting otherwise. 

He thinks about whether Hinata likes onigiri. Would Hinata offer him a beaming smile if he brought two extra onigiri for him? Would Hinata messily eat the onigiri, leaving trails of rice at the corner of his lips that Atsumu could brush off with his fingers? Would Hinata like him more if he gave him onigiri? 

Atsumu groans and bangs his head on the countertop. 

*

They’re sitting in a small izakaya a few blocks from the Adlers’ gym after the game. They’re crowded together in a long table, beers in hand. 

“Atsumu-san, you were amazing today! Like all of your sets were amazing and your serves were like _woosh_!” Hinata says from across the table, waving his arms around to mimic the motion of a set. 

Atsumu thumbs at the edge of his cup, “Thanks, Shouyou-kun. Ya weren’t so bad yerself.” 

“You should’ve seen the look on Kageyama’s face when you did that dump at the end. He was all broody and angsty, like this.” Hinata makes a pouty face, flattening his hair down to his forehead in a valiant effort to mock Kageyama.

Atsumu laughs, a warm feeling settling in his chest. He watches Hinata take a sip of beer. 

“But really, Atsumu-san, thank you. I - Before in high school when - ,” his face scrunches up adorably, “When I was in high school, no one thought I could be anything without Kageyama. And I kind of believed them. Even in Brazil, I thought that no one could set to me like Kageyama could, and I wasn’t strong enough on my own. But today, you gave me such great sets and they all felt amazing when I hit them, like _pow_! And like, I realize that I’m strong on my own, without Kageyama. So, thank you.”

Hinata smiles widely at Atsumu, all gleaming teeth and happiness. Atsumu feels his heart flip in his chest. It’s not love, Atsumu thinks, but it could be. 

*

They all decide to go to the beach on the first day of their offseason. Meian rented a van for the occasion but had severely underestimated the amount of space very tall and very athletic professional volleyball players would take up. Currently, Hinata is sidled up against him, babbling about the wonders of beach volleyball.

Atsumu taps the edge of his seat twenty times. Thirty more to go. He wonders what life would be like if he was Hinata Shouyou. Probably a lot brighter. 

Twenty taps to go.

“It’s just so different from indoor volleyball, you know?” Hinata gesticulates frantically, trying to get his point across, “The sand makes it so much harder to jump higher and it’s so much faster because there are only two people, you know?” 

Atsumu nods. He doesn’t know. He taps the edge of the seat two more times. Eight left to go. 

“And the wind, oh my god, the wind,” Hinata groans. “Sometimes it’s fine because there’s no wind at all, but most of the time, the wind just shifts the ball wherever it wants.” 

Atsumu taps the edge of his seat four times. He relaxes into his seat. 

“I wonder how Kageyama would play. He’s probably never set foot on a beach. Do you think he’d suck?”

Hinata looks at him expectantly, bouncing in his seat. Atsumu thinks about Kageyama playing volleyball on the beach. He thinks of him face-planting in the sand. He smiles, “Probably.” 

Hinata grins at that, “Yeah, me too.” 

Eventually, he falls asleep talking about how the net is different from indoor nets, hands falling limply in his lap. His head tilts towards Atsumu’s shoulder and rests there. Atsumu peers down at Hinata, face partially covered by his hair. His features are softened by sleep, entire face oozing tranquility. Atsumu likes this. Likes the feeling of Hinata relaxed against his side and the feeling of his soft hair brushing against his face. 

Over the past few months, Hinata had become something of a constant in Atsumu’s life. They would walk to practice together in the mornings and would walk home together at night. Atsumu would listen to Hinata ramble about new attacks he wanted to try, and in turn, Hinata would listen to Atsumu complain about Osamu. Sometimes they would get lunch together and try new restaurants that Hinata had suggested. 

Atsumu takes a piece of Hinata’s hair, so much brighter and softer than his own, and twirls it in his fingers. Hinata mumbles incoherently and shuffles closer to Atsumu. 

Somewhere, miles away from the safety of the van, Osamu sighs into his pillow as Atsumu falls in love with Hinata Shouyou.

*

Atsumu would like to think he upgraded to having the self-awareness of _two_ sober mules now. 

(“Ya haven’ upgraded for shit, ‘Tsumu. I had to remind you to take a shower last night. I don’ even live wit’cha anymore, and I knew ya hadn’t showered in two days.”

Atsumu is never going to his brother for moral support again.)

Because he _has_ upgraded to a higher level of self-awareness, he buys two yellow tulips this time instead of a whole bouquet. 

Before he gets to his apartment, he checks his Twitter in the elevator for any new notifications.

He thinks the world probably hates him.

Because the first thing he sees when he opens Twitter is a photo of one Kageyama Tobio kissing one Hinata Shouyou on the cheek. The photo is captioned, _It’s official_ by @hinatashouyou. 

The elevator dings open. He trudges to his apartment door. He slumps down and begins picking off the petals of the tulips.

*

**iv.**

“What are you doing,” a flat voice from above him asks, zero inflection in the question. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu stops biting at his nails and is glad to see that his cuticles haven’t started bleeding yet. 

“Can’cha see I’m mourning, Omi-kun?” He gestures to the yellow petals dancing in a circle around him. 

Sakusa’s eyebrows pinch together. The distance between the two moles above his right eyebrow shrinks. 

“Did somebody die.” Zero inflection, again. 

Atsumu grits his teeth. _No,_ he wants to say, _somebody didn’t die. But my heart did._ He settles for shoving his phone in Sakusa’s direction.

Sakusa squints at the phone screen. Recognition flashes in his eyes. He glances at Atsumu’s nails, “Okay.”

Atsumu hates him. He’s hated him since he saw the nasty way his wrists would twist at the training camp during the summer of his second year. He’s hated him since they lost twice to Itachiyama at Nationals. He’s hated him since he showed up to tryouts, flaunting his nasty wrists and his abominable height (Really, no one should be allowed to be as tall as Sakusa).

“Okay? Whad’ya mean okay?” Atsumu fumes. 

Sakusa ignores his question. He stares at Atsumu for a second, looking like he’s deciding between contracting the bubonic plague or swimming in a dumpster truck. “Do you want some tea?”

Atsumu squints at him. Atsumu might hate Sakusa, but he knows that Sakusa dislikes germs. He realized that quickly enough at the training camp, when Sakusa would avoid group huddles and would cringe whenever anyone patted him on the back. 

So why would Sakusa offer tea to Atsumu? He’s called him a slob on multiple occasions, nicknamed him _the Germy Miya_ once after Atsumu forgot to wash his hands after going to the bathroom.

(“This is the only time this has happened, Omi-omi!”

Sakusa had frowned at him disbelievingly.) 

Atsumu doesn’t know why Sakusa would be offering to hang out with him. Unless…

“Are ya tryna murder me, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa’s eyebrows do a funny thing. He’s wearing a mask but Atsumu is sure he’s scowling underneath it. This is a look Sakusa has given Atsumu multiple times before. The _what the fuck are you saying, you dirty slob_ look, “What.” 

“Nothing, nothing. Why’re ya offering?”

Sakusa considers him. He looks about one second away from kicking Atsumu in the face and walking away. Atsumu accepts this as a very real possibility. He waits.

“You look pathetic right now. Do you want tea or not.”

Atsumu blinks. Once.

He had not considered this as a possibility. He had considered Sakusa kicking him in the face. He had considered Sakusa just walking away. He had considered a camera being shoved in his face and being told he was on one of those prank shows. 

He had not considered the possibility of Sakusa offering to comfort him. 

Twice.

“Okay.”

*

Sakusa is a rock, Atsumu decides. A mean, stoic, feelingless rock. He had forced Atsumu to wait outside his apartment, which Atsumu discovered was only two doors down from his own apartment, while he shuffled around, looking for whatever he was looking for. He appeared after eight minutes with a box in his hand, haphazardly labeled “Miya’s shit” in the bottom corner. He tells Atsumu to put his shoes in the box. Atsumu puts his shoes in the box. He hands Atsumu a pair of plastic slippers and tells him to put them on. Atsumu puts on the plastic slippers. 

He leads Atsumu through his apartment, his unsurprisingly neat apartment, to his bathroom. It’s larger than Atsumu’s bathroom, with enough space for at least four people to fit comfortably in it. He sees a folded towel next to the shower, alongside a t-shirt and sweatpants. 

“Take a shower. You stink. Don’t touch my stuff. There’s shampoo and stuff on the left side. Keep your shoes on. Call my name when you’re done.” 

And with that, he leaves. The box is left next to the sink. 

Atsumu gulps. He picks at his fingers some more. One time, he had managed to pick off two of the callouses on the palm. His parents were terrified. He sighs and counts to ten. 

He gets in the shower. 

*

Osamu had once called Sakusa a taller, Japanese Timothée Chalamet. Atsumu had asked him who that was and Osamu had called him an uncultured swine. Later that night, Atsumu searched him up. He found out that yes, Sakusa does, in fact, look like a taller, Japanese Timothée Chalamet. 

He thinks about this while watching Sakusa pour two cups of green tea. They have the same hair, Atsumu thinks, and the same bone structure. But, Sakusa’s eyes are endless pits of darkness, not a piercing blue-greenish. Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ever encountered anyone with blue or green eyes. 

Well.

Would Hinata have liked him better if he had dark blue eyes? Would he have liked him better if he dyed his hair back to black and left it on his head like a mop with a middle part?

He tries to distract himself by looking around Sakusa’s apartment. It was relatively homey for how much a clean freak Sakusa was. Color-coordinated books in foreign languages line the walls of his living room. A small record player sits in the corner of the room, a set of vinyl records accompanying it. 

“I told you not to sit on the couch,” Sakusa scowls at him, a steaming cup of tea in each hand. 

Atsumu makes grabby hands at the cups and Sakusa’s scowl deepens as he hands him one. “Where else was I s’posed to sit, Omi-omi?” 

“On the floor.” 

Atsumu laughs at that and calls him mean, but Sakusa doesn’t tell him to get off the couch. 

They don’t talk about Hinata. 

*

It becomes something of a habit, knocking on Sakusa’s door whenever he feels like biting his fingers off, asking for a cup of tea. Sakusa usually indulges him, grumbling half-hearted insults before guiding him to his bathroom. A new caddy hangs off the wall in the shower now, flaunting a scribbled “Miya” on its side. A new box sits in the corner of the bathroom, filled to the brim with clean t-shirts and sweatshirts. 

Most days, they sat in silence while a movie played in the background. Atsumu would relax into the couch, thankful for the lack of questions and the distraction, and Sakusa would pretend like he wasn’t going to dry clean the entire couch after Atsumu left. A mutually beneficial relationship, if you asked Atsumu. 

Today, however, is different.

Today, Sakusa knocks on Atsumu’s door wearing what Atsumu could only assume is a makeshift hazmat suit, holding a bucket full of disinfectant and cleaning supplies.

“Omi-omi?”

“Can I come in.”

Atsumu considers Sakusa. He’s looking around frantically, hands wringing together around the bucket handle. “S - sure?”

Sakusa heaves a sigh and brushes past Atsumu. He looks at the kitchen and the living room. “Huh. You’re a lot cleaner than I thought you’d be.”

“Wha - What’s that s’posed to mean?” Leave it to Sakusa Kiyoomi to insult someone while trying to compliment them. 

Sakusa chooses to ignore him and begins wiping down his kitchen counter. His hands shake almost imperceptibly with each wipe. Atsumu frowns.

“Not that I mind havin’ a personal cleaner, but what’re ya doin’ here, Omi-omi?” 

Sakusa gets a new wipe from the bucket and begins wiping down the sink. Atsumu almost thinks he didn’t hear his question. 

“You haven’t been over for tea in a while,” Sakusa says. An observation. It sounds like an accusation. 

Atsumu blinks. Once. Twice. He _hasn’t_ been over for tea in a while. But why would Sakusa care? He didn’t seem like he cared much for Atsumu’s presence when he was there. 

“No, I guess not.”

Sakusa hums in acknowledgment. There was something sharp about it, as if he wasn’t satisfied with the answer. Atsumu isn’t sure what he should have said. Sakusa takes out the disinfectant spray from the bucket and begins spraying down the counter. The counter he had already wiped. Atsumu’s frown deepens. 

“Uh, d’ya need some help?”

Sakusa glances back at Atsumu. His eyebrows are drawn together, twitching slightly. His hands still shake around the disinfectant spray. “No, I’m fine.”

He goes back to spraying and wiping down his kitchen. Atsumu isn’t sure what to make of this. This is _his_ apartment. So why is Sakusa here playing the role of a well-paid, docile maid? 

Sakusa gets to the boxes of onigiri. The Onigiri Miya label flickers at him curiously. He stops in front of them as if considering whether or not he should throw them in the trash, before he sprays them down. The boxes of onigiri. The _cardboard_ boxes of onigiri.

A clock ticks away in Atsumu’s brain, the minute hand four stops away from twelve.

One. 

Atsumu picks at his fingers. Surely he should say something. But what? Clearly, Sakusa was distraught, but Atsumu had never been particularly good at the whole comforting thing.

Two.

The shaking in Sakusa’s hands seems to slow down a bit as he continues to wipe down the kitchen. 

Three. 

Atsumu thinks he probably has tea in his cupboard somewhere. He probably also has a copy of an interesting movie in the cabinets under his T.V. set. And his couch was decently clean, seeing as he had spent the entire morning reading WikiHow articles on how to deep clean a couch. 

Four. 

“Omi-kun, d’ya want some tea?”

*

Atsumu learns a few things about Sakusa Kiyoomi during their time spent together: 

1) Sakusa has a strange penchant for collecting vintage vinyl records he finds when traveling for games. 

(“But Omi-kun, aren’ ya scared they’re dirty?” 

Sakusa tells Atsumu that he never leaves his apartment without a pack of cleaning wipes.)

2) Sakusa has an infinite supply of cleaning wipes. 

(“It’s not infinite, I just know where to buy a lot for cheap.”

“Omi-omi, why do I get the feeling that yer getting them illegally?”) 

3) Sakusa is a good cook. 

(“Just because you suck at cooking doesn’t mean I’m an amazing cook.”

“Mean, Omi-omi, so mean.”)

4) Sakusa is aggressively passionate about philosophy despite majoring in biomedical engineering.

“Miya, I genuinely do not want to be having this conversation with you right now.” 

“Omi-kun, humor me. What exactly d’ya find appealin’ about old guys bitchin’ about the meaning of life?” 

Sakusa scrunches his nose at Atsumu. He looks about one second away from kicking him out of his apartment. “Do I need a reason for finding things interesting.” 

“No, no I’m just curious,” Atsumu says as he pops two grapes in his mouth. He had brought them over as a snack, before realizing Sakusa would probably throw them out before he could even step foot into his apartment. Surprisingly, he allowed Atsumu to bring them in and just washed them a few times (he counted eight) before setting them in a bowl for them to share. 

Sakusa took a grape for himself. He eyed it warily, before putting it in his mouth and eating it. “Most of philosophy is just people elegantly shit-talking one another. It’s like being in on one really long, really wordy, shit-talking inside joke about life.” He eats another grape. Atsumu assumed there was more to it than that but he didn’t push. 

“So what yer sayin’ is the meaning of life isn’t forty-two?”

Sakusa snorts and throws a grape at him. 

*

Some days are better than others. Some days, Atsumu doesn’t think too much about his nails or numbers. Those days, he still visits Sakusa and still asks for a cup of tea. Sakusa seemed to be less and less annoyed with him with each visit, which he assumed was a good sign. But on other days: 

Atsumu knocks on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. 

He hears some shuffling before Sakusa appears in front of him (He took five steps to get to the door). Atsumu bites at his fingers. 

Sakusa opens his mouth, probably to reprimand Atsumu, before shutting it. His eyes fall down to Atsumu’s hands. Right. It was probably concerning, considering the fact that all ten of his fingers were bandaged. 

“I took a shower before I got here. Two actually.” Atsumu shuffles from foot to foot. His hair is still wet.

Sakusa eyes him warily, “Okay.”

Two drops of water spill from his head onto the mat in front of Sakusa’s door. 

“I bought a new brand of green tea today that we can try out,” Sakusa says before he lets Atsumu in. Atsumu nods. 

He takes ten steps to the couch. Sits down. Gets up. Sits down again. He hears the whine of the kettle. The clinking of the cups that Sakusa always uses for tea. The shuffling of Sakusa’s feet as he moves around the kitchen. The sounds dance together in a circle around him. Like the painting. Except Atsumu doesn’t really feel carefree at the moment. 

Sakusa hands him a cup of tea. He sits down next to Atsumu. Atsumu takes two sips of the tea. It tastes the same as the other brand. He sets it down on the coffee table in front of him. Picks it up. Sets it down again. Sakusa should really invest in coasters instead of wiping down the table each time they had tea together. 

Then something weird happens.

Sakusa takes both of Atsumu’s hands in his and settles on the couch so that he’s sitting with his legs crossed, facing Atsumu. Atsumu stiffens, then relaxes. It’s Sakusa. Sakusa, who’s become someone that Atsumu trusts. Sakusa, who never asks Atsumu to talk when he doesn’t feel like it, who never offers him verbal reassurance but calms Atsumu all the same. Atsumu shuffles around, crossing his own legs to face him. 

Looking down, he rubs circles into the backs of Atsumu’s hands. He does them in bursts of fours. One, two, three, four, pause. One, two, three, four, pause. It’s nice. 

Sometime later that night, confessions are made, sans yellow tulips. Sometime later that night, Atsumu gives someone a piece of himself and finally, finally, they give him a piece of themselves in return.

*

Atsumu shows Sakusa _Dance_ a few weeks later. Sakusa laughs at it and tells Atsumu that if he wanted to pursue a career in art, he would have to try a lot harder than that. Atsumu’s never felt freer in his life. 

_fin._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/claudusdiei)  
> this was supposed to be a short character study clowning on our mans miya atsumu with like a dash of sakuatsu but then it turned into this monstrosity of a fic because atsumu is a canonically confirmed simp. i have no regrets
> 
> extra note: you can't convince me that sakusa is not a bonafide japanese timothée chalamet because i won't believe you. literally look at him
> 
> update: i wrote sakusa and atsumu’s getting together from sakusa’s pov which u can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994664) if you would like

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [take what's yours and make it mine [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402720) by [midnightmew-podfics (midnightmew)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightmew/pseuds/midnightmew-podfics)




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